A Boy and His Dog
by fangirl42
Summary: The story of Liam Cousland through the eyes and memories of his aging Mabari. Part of the "Who Wants to Live Forever" story line.
1. Chapter 1

_As the end of his days grows near, Rowan the Mabari spends his time remembering. He will tell the story we all know so well from his perspective_. _Hopefully along the way, he'll pass along some of that ancient Mabari wisdom._

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><p>I am old.<p>

My body is weak, my vision cloudy, my hearing no better than a human. Worse than all of that, my body's greatest betrayal is my slipping sense of smell. I would gladly give up my sight, my hearing, bear the aches and the pains, if I could only keep my nose in working order.

Layer by layer, I am loosing that which makes me, me. Gone are the days when I could tell every place the people around me had visited throughout the day. Gone are the days when I could find the scent of a single person amidst the refuse of the city.

It is as if as I age, I become more and more like the humans around me. It is unsettling.

I am tired.

As my body grows old and weak, I seek to escape my pains and diminished senses by sleeping. Even this refuge I am denied. Though it appears that I sleep, the best I can do is drift. As I drift, I remember. Sometimes the memories are old and faded, like the blanket that the Man gives me to lay on near the fire. Sometimes, the memories cut like a knife, so fresh and full of scent and sound that it is like living through them all over again. Sometimes this is good. I remember the Boy, his Companions, his Mate in happy times. Other times, I remember the Boy, his Companions and his Mate during those days at the end. I would give much to not remember the end. That is a memory I wish with all my soul I could forget.

Do you know that love has its own scent? Not the smell of rutting, even humans can smell that. No, I mean love. I smelled it on the Boy and his Mate long, long before either of them spoke of it. Before they shared a tent even and began that awkward dance that humans often confuse with love.

It is not only love that has its own smell. Anger, fear, sadness – all strong emotion has scent. The world would be a much better place if the humans could sense this as we Mabari do.

On this day by the fire, I sink into a good memory. An old memory, faded yet still clear. I am young and so is the Boy. All long limbs and unruly hair, he is hanging back behind his pack mate. His sire has brought the older one to the kennel to see me and my brothers and sister. I am aware of him, of his brother and sire, but far more interested in fighting for my turn at my Mam's teat. I am strong, stronger than my sister, stronger than most of my brothers, so the fight is short. Already I can tell where each of my siblings is as they wallow in the hay. I can smell so much – the hay, my siblings, my Mam, the Boy and his brother and Sire, the other Mabari in the kennel, my Mam's milk, the urine from each of my siblings, indeed from all of the other Mabari , the Kennel Master and his helpers – one of them has had something for his morning meal that I have never smelled before – it distracts me and when I lift my head to puzzle over the scent, my sister slips between me and my Mam.

With a full belly, I let her take her turn and follow my nose away from the comfort of my Mam and packmates. As I wander closer to the edge of the enclosure that has been my home for all of my short life, I smell something new. This smell is so enticing that it completely eclipses the food smell that had drawn me away from the comfort of my Mam's teat. It is complex and wonderful and calls to me. I whimper at the gate and dig at the dirt, trying to find a way out, a way to reach the source of that smell.

The Kennel Master and the Sire laugh at my attempts and open the gate. They think that I am interested in the older one, but a quick sniff of his boots tells me he is not the one, not the source. Neither is his Sire so I follow the scent further away yet and then I find it. It is the Boy. It is his scent. He smells of many things – his breakfast of oats and milk, the dirt and horse dung that he stepped in on his way to the kennel, the scent of soap that clings to his clothes, even the cotton and wool that make up those clothes. Under all of that is the scent that is uniquely him – I cannot describe it but over the years it will remain. Other scents will cover it – leather and blood, steel and musk, but under it all will be that which is uniquely him. As I sniff him and attempt to memorize that scent, he reaches down and ever so gently scratches my ears. It is bliss.

He is mine.

The other humans are not happy. I can smell the irritation and confusion wafting off the Sire; the anger and jealousy coming off his sibling. I cower, confused. Why are they angry? I keep myself between the Boy and his sibling, lying on the ground.

The Boy kneels down behind me and places both of his hands on me, one on my head and one on my flank.

"You're scaring him, Fergus."

"Father, Liam is too young for his own Mabari."

"Mabari bonding is not something you can force, ser. Perhaps one of the other pups will be interested?"

The Kennel Master leads the one the Boy called Fergus back to my litter mates and his Sire kneels down beside him. He offers me his hand to sniff and I tentatively lean forward to smell him. His scent is similar to the Boy's. He smells of leather, wine and smoke and curiosity.

"Well, Pup. It looks like you have a new friend. What's his name?"

"But Father, what about Fergus?"

"He has the others to attempt to bond with, but this fine fellow has chosen you. That's the way Mabari bonding works. "

"Really?"

"Really. So, what will you call him?"

The Boy looked down and me and I raised my head. We looked into each other's eyes. I know not what the Boy saw, but as I stared into his blue eyes I caught a glimmer of something, a glimpse perhaps of the man he would become. Perhaps it is just my memory playing tricks on me in my old age, but I like to think that I knew as I watched him that morning that I knew he was destined for greatness.

He leaned down to press his forehead to my head and I marveled at the sudden surge of love I felt for him.

"Rowan. His name is Rowan," he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is warm here. So much warmer than the home I left behind when the end came for the Boy and his Mate. The Man took me with him when he left, travelling back to his home. A strange home it was, too. Filled with giants like and yet unlike the Man. They are confused when he returns home with me. Mabari are not known here.

This place is difficult to understand. I spend much time wandering the jungle, learning the new scents of this place. New animals, new plants, new people. The Qunari, they call themselves. They like to believe that they each have a place and in that place they are content. On the wind, their emotions tell a different story.

Many here are not content. Contentment has a unique scent, one that warms and surrounds you with a sense of fulfillment and peace. It is a much rarer scent here among the giants than they would have you believe. The Man, once he returned here, has not smelled of it once. He had, back home, when the Boy had found his soul. In the years since our arrival here, he has not found it again.

I have found some measure of it, however. Mostly, I find it in the simple things. Lying in the sun after a long trek chasing the odd cats that live in the jungle; having my belly scratched by the Man at night; tonight, I find it in a memory.

The Boy and his Companions gather around the fire. We are somewhere along our trek to the stout folk. The day had been uneventful, a rarity in our journey. No one begging for our help, no darkspawn and their bitter taint attacking us. Just the warm sun, the fresh air and the living forest all around us.

The Man and I brought a brace of rabbits to the stew pot. Chasing them, following their scent, the Man on my heels as we ran through the pine and brush; it was freedom at its best. The Boy often sent the Man and I to hunt. He seemed to sense that the giant needed time away from the noise of the others. As for me, it was a chance to simply run and give chase.

That night, even the Witch joins us. The rich rabbit stew filling our bellies, the fire warming us and the sounds of the forest wrapping around us in the dark is pleasant and relaxing. Wine is found and the stories begin.

On one side of the fire, away from the rest, the Witch sits. Her magic leaves a bitter scent, one that smells faintly of bear. I have seen her in that form and am glad that for now she is on our side. Someday, she will turn on the Boy. I have smelled it on her from the first. Though they know not why, no one sits close to her. They can tell, some part of them can scent her treachery but their human senses are too dull.

Closest to her is the old Mage. She keeps herself between the Boy and the Witch often. She smells faintly of death, though it is well masked underneath the tang of lyrium and roses. She sips her wine slowly and watches the others as they relax around the fire. She looks on them as children, especially the Boy and his fellow Warden.

He sits next to her, the First Companion. From the moment we met the First, I knew he was a gentle soul; innocent in so much, yet fierce in his loyalty. It is this loyalty that defines him, underlies his scent of taint and steel. He blushes and embarrassment rolls of him in waves that make me sneeze. Someone has made a joke at his expense and everyone laughs.

The Sister leans over from her seat further down and comforts the First. She is the most confusing Companion the Boy has gathered so far. She sings often and seems very happy, yet her scent is one of melancholy and falsehood. Despite this, I trust her. The Boy and the First think her mad, but useful. What they do not know is that she tries to reinvent herself each day. It is one of the benefits of being Mabari – people talk to us, thinking us incapable of true understanding. The Sister and I have sat many watches together on this Journey. She has told me her tale, the true one, and how she prays to her Maker that she might one day atone.

Further around the circle of the fire sits the Boy and his Mate. The Boy, and he will always be that child to me, the one who smelled of oats and milk on that day long ago, is now a man grown. Burdened with responsibilities and sorrows beyond his years, in this moment he is just the Boy as he sits with his back to an old stump with his Mate sitting between his legs. Their love is young yet, but I smell it on them all the same.

The Mate believes he is immune to love yet it is from him I first caught the scent. As he sits there, nestled in the arms of the Boy, he is content. He is a far different man than the killer we met all those weeks ago. Then, he sought his death on the blades of the Boy and the First. Now, he protects them. The stench of desperation no longer overwhelms the sandalwood and oil that is his scent.

I lay on the other side of the Boy, between him and the Man. He watches the others in stern silence, unsure still of his place. His frustration overwhelms all else. Soon, he will take out that frustration on the Boy, but not this night. For now, he tries to relax, though it is difficult for him. The Man also places himself between the Boy and the Witch. Much like the old Mage, he understands that she represents something dangerous. Both mages make him uncomfortable, his fear seeping under the frustration whenever they wield their magics.

Around the fire this night, the humans pass their wine and tell their stories. Stories of colorful wonders in a foreign land from the Sister, stories of death and seduction from the Mate, tales of neglect hidden beneath hilarity from the First, and memories of family from the Boy that are both bittersweet and droll. Even tales from the Witch and the Man, though they lack the wit of the others. Still, the night is enjoyable. The wine and tales flow long after the old Mage and the Man wander off to their tents claiming tiredness after the Witch leaves.

The rest of us – the Boy, the Mate, the First, the Sister and I – move closer to each other, reluctant to end the camaraderie that has sprung up this night. I move to lie beside the Sister and she slips her hand into my ruff. She knows just where to scratch and soon the warmth of the fire and her gentle hands lull me into a state of complete relaxation. The First slips closer to her and she leans into him, smiling. Closing her eyes, she begins to sing.

It is a love song, one that brings a smile to the Boy's lips. He leans down and whispers in his Mate's ear and is rewarded with a chuckle and a kiss. The First looks away, uncomfortable, until the Sister slips her free hand into his. He stills, uncertain and nervous for a moment, before he, too, smiles.

I sigh and close my eyes. This memory is a good one. It is a moment of serenity before the stone and gloom of the stout folk, before the treachery and corruption of Denerim, before the sacrifice and death that engulfs us at the end. This is a memory I wish to hold close – a simple day of companionship and trust, a happy day amongst too many days of horror and loss.

A good day.

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><p><strong>AN: **R&R please! I'm taking suggestions for new "memories". Is there a quest or moment in the game you'd like to see from the Dog's perspective? Leave a review and let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

It rains often in the jungle of Serehon, daily downpours that leave moisture hanging heavy in the air. Sometimes the wind howls and lightening lashes. When these gales tear through, they bring back memories, recollections of people and places – some pleasant and some painful. Tonight, while the wind wails and electricity fills the air, I dream, and dreaming remember the last companion my Boy found.

I call him the Storm.

We meet him in Orzamar, home of the stout people. The Boy hates his time underground; performing endless stupid tasks for a man he worries might be responsible for the deaths of his brothers. Our first encounter with the Storm is less a meeting and more the witness to personal disaster. Drunk, angry and belligerent, he argues in the streets, uncaring who sees or hears his tirade. He smells of ale tinged with the slightest whiff of ozone laced with madness and he instantly fascinates me.

I find the dwarven city enthralling. I am surrounded by scents different from anything I have ever encountered on the surface – the bitterness of molten lava, the sharp dry scent of stone and the odd sweetness of nug. I feel like a pup again, following my nose anywhere and everywhere. I make quite a stir since most of the stout folk have never seen a Mabari. Considering that I can look most of them in the eye barely lifting my head, I suppose they may have reason to find me a bit imposing. Or that I may think them at first to be children. Still, that one tavern maid doesn't need to scream and hit me on the head with her serving platter. I am only being friendly.

The stout folk are an odd bunch, at best but, of them all, the Storm is the oddest. He confronts the Boy and demands to accompany us when we venture into the Deep Roads. His breath actually knocks the Boy back a step and I see the Sister cover her nose and grimace. Despite the reek of ale, I am more intrigued by the anger I smell rolling off him in waves.

As intriguing as the city is to me, the Deep Roads are not. The scent of darkspawn taint is almost overwhelming once we venture far enough. The weight of the stone above our heads is tangible as we travel deeper in the strange half-light of luminescent fungus covering the cave walls. The further we go, the more all of us, save the Storm, become prickly and drained by the strangeness of it all.

We search for the Storm's mate. Much of his anger revolves around her and those he feels abandoned her to the darkspawn. With each passing day travelling through what was once a kingdom to rival any on the surface, the Storm's sorrow and frustration seeps through; not only for his mate but for his people, as well. The stout folk have lost much to the darkspawn, more than any race on the surface fully understands. They fight the darkspawn always, every year a battle to maintain their city.

As desolate as the lost thaigs and cities of the dwarves are, what lies ahead for us is almost impossible to describe. For we find the Storm's mate and she is truly lost. Lost to the madness of ambition and willing to sacrifice everything upon the altar of personal glory. I smell the madness on her when we finally meet. It is a sharp, bitter scent that raises my hackles. Until we find her, the Storm is reluctant to give up hope. Despite what Laryn says to us, couched in rhyme and insanity, he hopes. When that hope dies, it is a hard thing to witness.

Die it does, however, once we see the thing that once was a dwarven maid. I cannot describe the wrongness that hangs like a cloud unseen around the grotesquery that is the Broodmother. We battle that monstrosity and her minions for what seems like days. The Boy cries out in anguish and wrath when he sees the Mate wrapped in the arms of the beast, shaken like a toy. If it were not for the old Mage, the Mate would have died that day.

When the battle is done, we are all tired, bruised, bleeding and sore in our hearts, none more so than the Storm. The Boy and the First are shaken, thinking of their sister Wardens and the fate that awaits them in the Deep Roads.

We find the Storm's mate and battle her for control of the Anvil, he is livid. His anger at the Boy rolls off him in waves so strong it is a wonder anyone still stands. Yet, he picks up his axe and he fights on our side. Despite his anger, he knows her madness cannot be rewarded. When it is over and we return to the city victorious, if such a word can be used to describe the horrors we face, the Boy finishes what he began and places the Prince on the throne. When the newly crowned fool orders the death of his rival, the Boy is angry. He speaks out for leniency and then leaves.

The Storm leaves with us and our return to the surface is bittersweet. The air is clean and cold and we all breathe deeply for the first time in weeks. The Mate, despite his dislike for the cold, nearly hums with pleasure. The Sister begins a song of joy and links arms with the First. Together, they lead the way and all but the Boy and the Storm follow.

The Boy waits as the Storm adjusts to a sky that goes on forever. While we rejoice at the weight that has lifted from us with our escape from the darkness, he learns a new paradigm. He does so quickly and with his usual crass wit.

As we continue our journey towards the end, the Storm finds a way to insult nearly everyone. I find it amusing. So does the Boy. And he drinks. I watch him often, wondering where he hides the alcohol. The old Mage tries to take it away from him. The Boy manages to find more for him, but only the best. Not that the Storm particularly cares – he will drink anything. He bets the First's uncle, the nice one, that he can drink a barrel of pickle juice. He does. His piss smells of vinegar for days afterwards. I find it immensely amusing.

No one else does.

Thinking of the Storm reminds me of the end, for he was with us only in the last weeks as we trudged ever closer towards the final battle. He fights well, leading the men left behind to guard the gates of the city. I remember the anger and hurt I feel when the Boy leaves me behind and how the Storm reminds us all to stand proudly.

Though most look at the Storm and see a drunk, the Boy sees something else. Underneath the anger and the ale, the Storm watches. He is crafty and his rudeness a cover. Often, the Storm uses his drunkenness to distract others, to ease tension or to call attention to himself and away from the Boy. He uses this skill for the Boy on more than one occasion. He even manages to draw the old Mage and her disapproval away from the Boy and the Mate. The Storm stands guard, keeping away those who would keep them apart. For this alone, I am forever grateful.

I slip further into the Fade and dream of the Boy and his Mate. They look for each other, in the Beyond. When it comes my time to join the Boy again, I will help him find his Mate.

Not today, but soon. My time draws near.

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><p><strong>AN: McNeko **and** SgtGinger, **thanks for the favorite! Hope you enjoy it.


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